Once (last night, in fact) upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, I decided to go to bed rather than complete the recap of the Braves’ 3-2 loss in 10 innings. The creative muse was not speaking to me immediately after that dreary rain-soaked affair, so I decided to sleep, perchance to dream. I remember that Coleridge’s poem Kubla Kahn came to him in a dream, as did the melody to Paul McCartney’s Yesterday.
When I woke this morning, I don’t remember any dreams. No problem: I realized I could do no better than the eloquence of our own estimable balladeer AAR in this space just 24 hours ago:
“Well, that sucked.